Catchpenny
by RoeBoat
Summary: Catch·pen·ny: Using sensationalism or cheapness for appeal. 10 short one-shots based on one-word prompts from Zombie's point of view, all about friendship, angst, humor, and whacky hijinks. After all, anything involving Hanna has to be crazy, right?
1. Crash

**It was about time I did one of those "100 words" prompts, and it might be good for me, I think. I need a good story to experiment with, and I think this might be the one. **

**All definitions come from the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, because when I was little, I thought that "Merriam Webster" was a person and I feel like I should do penance. They also have some non-conventional definitions.  
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**This is the first I've written in second person, so let me know how you think I did. I've never consciously decided to write like this before, but for some reason, it was the easiest way for me to write Zombie.  
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1. Crash: _To move toward aggressively_

_Used in a sentence: With his crazy lifestyle, Hanna can't help but crash after several days of running full speed. _

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><p>Hanna has this horrid habit of running himself until he can't take it anymore. You've seen it happen countless times after work, after a case, or even just on one of his magic binges.<p>

Lately, he seems to be getting some odd shifts at work, so he wakes up, yanks on his red shirt and khakis, and doesn't come back until late. You've got a feeling that the slow caseload you've had lately has something to do with it, but Hanna's bringing home money and you've got to pay the bills somehow. There are still cases, there just aren't a whole lot of them, so Hanna often comes home from work, changes out of his work clothes, and jumps right back into the case he left the night before.

That usually means that he gets three hours of sleep, tops.

Sometimes you meet him at work just before his shift ends. You walk him home, keeping a watchful eye to make sure he doesn't pass out in the middle of the street.

More often, he stumbles in their small apartment, shuffling his feet as he makes his way directly to the sorry excuse for a bed in the corner. He drops in a matter of seconds, burrowing his face in the pillow.

"I… am SOOOOOOO tired, Charlie," he whines, and before you ask how his day was, he's already fast asleep.

You sigh, gently taking off his shoes and pulling the thin blanket over his small frame. You realize that he's going to be rather hungry in the morning, as you're nearly positive that he hasn't eaten anything since the leftover spaghetti you made him eat before he left.

Hanna's going to make himself sick if he keeps this up. You make a mental note to tell him about that in the morning.

The next day, you realize that it's his day off, so you let him sleep in.

Hanna doesn't wake up until nearly noon. By the time you serve him a sandwich for lunch (you both decide that breakfast doesn't feel appropriate), he's so enthralled about some song that came on the radio or a video game that came out yesterday (or maybe both, you really can't tell) that you don't have the heart to scold him. At least, not yet.

You might be able to stay awake forever, but Hanna can't.

That night, you get another case, and by the time you get back at five in the morning, Hanna's already asleep again. You feel awful when the alarm goes off a few hours later (not enough, it seems) and Hanna groggily pushes himself up on his elbows and yawns.

You just shake your head, tell him to go back to sleep, and grab the phone.

As far as Target knows, Hanna's sick today.

**I don't know how consistent this will be- in length, in updating, in characters used. I have NO idea. But I've been itching to write a Hanna fic, and I figured this might be a good place to start before I write the multi-chaptered story I have planned. **

**-Marty :-D**


	2. Dim

2. Dim: _Perceived by the senses or mind indistinctly or weakly_

_Used in a sentence: Worth's compassion is about as dim as the light in his office—faint but still there._

* * *

><p>You wonder absentmindedly if Worth can actually see anything in his office, or if he just likes it that dark and gross because it keeps his actions as ambiguous as their legality.<p>

It's not the dirt and grime on the floor, or the piles of papers and books, or even the large plant in the corner that you're sure no one waters because you spend a lot of time there (more than you'd care to) and you've never seen anyone go near it.

It's the fact that there's hardly any light. There's a lighting fixture up on the ceiling, of course, but there isn't a light on his desk. It's even worse in Worth's "back room" where he practices, as there's only a single pathetic light bulb hanging from the ceiling. You've spent a few times watching it swing back and forth, trying to keep your mind off the fact that Hanna's bleeding a lot more than he should. What is almost comical is the fact that there are several outlets draped through the ceiling tiles, and you're sure that violates some sort of fire code.

Maybe it's because they're usually there at night, but it doesn't seem like it takes much for the darkness in the world to find Worth. He doesn't seem like the type of man to be bothered with looking for it, exactly, but he's certainly got a knack for attracting some interesting characters_—_ yourself included.

So here you are, once again, waiting patiently for Worth to finish patching up Hanna. It's pretty minimal this time, just a lovely gash on the paranormal investigator's right arm and a sprained ankle.

You watch Worth carefully, and you'd like to say it was because you don't trust him with your employer. But the truth is, you do_—_ more than anyone else in the world.

And that's because you know he cares, even if it's hard to tell.

It's the way he growls at Hanna as he's stitching him back together, the quiet concern behind his grunts of irritation that make you sure that somewhere, deep inside, he cares. Worth's not the type to show affection by any means, but he does.

It's the way he makes sure he always has some blood for Conrad.

It's the way he punches Lamont in the face after the latter has had a bad day, knowing that they both need to vent a little.

It's the way he'll open the door behind him for Toni, even if he purposely makes sure that the door hits Conrad in the face when he lets it go.

But most of all, you see it in the way he fixes Hanna any time of the day. He might not be the best (and you've got some questions about how safe it is for Worth to be stitching Hanna up with little to no light), but he's reliable, always there.

And for that, you're grateful. Because even though Worth pretends not to care, something inside of him does.

That's all you can ask for.


	3. Futile

3. Fut·ile: _Serving no useful purpose_

_Used in a sentence: All attempts to calm down Hanna and Veser's video game competitions are futile._

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><p>Hanna is moaning, and he sounds completely worn and defeated. "Augh, no! You can't—"<p>

"Ha, ha, that's what you get. Sucker!" His enemy, on the other hand, sounds quite victorious. You find his attitude curious, considering that he hasn't even won yet.

You're actually a bit afraid. The way they're going at it, you're not sure how much longer you can stay neutral. You've calmly resigned yourself to sitting in a chair nearby, watching the two boys go at each other.

It is rather frustrating when they get like this, you suppose. They're ultra competitive, and someone always ends up getting hurt. But you just calmly sit and watch the punches fly, blood squirting all over the walls, knowing that there's absolutely nothing you can do.

Hanna looks like he's in pain; his face is contorted into a frown like he wears when he's thinking too hard or doing magic. You wish you could help him, but you're powerless to do anything. Well, you can, but there isn't a point. Hanna's going to die, and you can't help him.

His opponent, does not look as vexed. His sharp teeth are twisted into a bloodthirsty smirk, and you're just glad that you're not the one he's focusing his energies on.

They smack each other around some more, and when all seems lost, Hanna gets a familiar inquisitive look on his face, shrugs in an "I really, really hope this works" kind of way, and takes a risk.

Suddenly, a "Player 1 Wins" screen comes up, with Hanna's character dancing around and celebrating.

"What. The. FUCK, man? How the hell did you do that?" Veser shrieks, and you almost laugh. Almost.

Hanna sets down the game controller, grinning and crossing his arms. "And that is how it's done," he says smugly.

"But… You were so far behind! Wait," the nineteen-year-old hesitates. "You did something."

The redhead gets a quizzical look on his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

You decide that next time Hanna asks if he's a bad liar, you're going to reference this moment.

"Let me see your hand," Veser demands. Hanna obliges, and you can clearly see the tiniest of runes doodled on his hand. You and Veser both look at the pocket of Hanna's worn jeans at the same time, and see that an uncapped Sharpie is barely—just barely—sticking out of his pocket.

"Ah ha, I knew it! I knew my 'R' button wasn't working right!" Veser exclaims, tackling Hanna to the ground. They wrestle around for a bit, Veser grabbing for the black marker, which the paranormal investigator has slipped out of his pocket and into his hand.

You feel like you should remind them that they're in Conrad's living room and the marker is still uncapped, but getting involved in the fray seems like a bad idea. Veser will probably end up ripping one of his limbs off, and Hanna would feel bad, and he honestly doesn't want to deal with that right now.

Conrad is working in the kitchen. He rips off his headphones and pokes his head into his living room long enough to remind them that he'd prefer if they didn't bleed all over his floor, albeit with some more colorful language. You've noticed that Conrad's accent tends to come out more when he's tired and when he's angry, and you're betting that the current variation of his English lilt is a product of both.

He looks at you, raising an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to do something?"

You shrug. "Do you honestly think it would help?"

They end the night at Hanna's apartment, where you find yourself wrapping gauze around a brush burn he somehow managed to get on his arm. Hanna also hopes that Conrad doesn't notice that they flipped one of the cushions on his couch, as dots of Sharpie splotch the other side.

You just hope this doesn't happen again for at least two days.

**A/N: In my mind, they're playing Soulcalibur III, because it's entertaining. You can probably sub any game in, but that's what they're playing in my mind. **

**See, sometimes Zombie doesn't even bother trying to save Hanna, because he knows better. And let's face it, he has a sense of humor- why not let them learn the consequences by themselves? **

**-Marty :-D**


	4. Erratic

4. Er·rat·ic: _Characterized by lack of consistency, regularity, or uniformity_

_Used in a sentence: Hanna's happiness is as erratic as Worth's sobriety—sometimes he slips._

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><p>You wouldn't say that Hanna is moody, per se, but he tends to lean to extremes.<p>

Hanna is generally a happy person. Aside from the five minutes before and after he sleeps when he's in that tired half out-of-it funk, Hanna is simply full of energy.

It is not uncommon for you to walk in on him pretending that the soap and shampoo bottles are talking to each other.

You've seen him with sock puppets. _Daily_. Your personal favorites are the American Idol judges, just because Hanna's British accent is so tremendously bad. ("Maybe I should ask Connie for help, Giacamo.")

Last week, he fell asleep in the bathroom, knees hooked over the shower rod. When you tried to wake him up, he didn't even try to explain himself. He just shrugged, and gave that "I am what I am" smile you've come to admire as he shuffled to his bed.

Two days ago, he made a snowman out of oatmeal. He put raisins in it for eyes, and gave it to Conrad.

"Conrad," he said bashfully, "I made you a present."

The vampire just looked at him. He opened his mouth and closed it again like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. He just rolled his eyes and sighed, saying, "I… er, thank you."

Hanna can fail ten times over, and still land on his feet with a smile on his face. He looks for the bright side in everything.

"At least now I know not to tickle a troll," he says, holding an ice pack to his concussed head.

"At least I got to him to admit he has bad breath," he says as Worth cusses him out for getting his leg slashed by a homeless person outside of the McDonalds around the corner. ("Hanna, a hobo s'not supernatural!")

"At least no one's dead," he says as he limps home from a particularly nasty case involving a harpy. "Except you, Bartholomew. And Connie. But no one who wasn't already dead died."

"Bartholomew?" you tease, trying to keep his mind off of what you're sure needs stitches. Even though it's dark, you can see the bloody stain start to seep through his jeans. The cover of the night can't hide everything, you suppose.

He laughs. "Already dead died. Already dead died. Kind of a tongue twister, isn't it?" And, of course, he says it several more times until "Already dead died" turns into "All-deady dead died."

You love to laugh with him; his happiness is contagious.

But so is his sadness, it seems. When Hanna's happy, he's obscenely happy. Worth might say, "Disgustin'ly happy," but happy nonetheless.

But joy never lasts, it seems.

Something in Hanna's smile changes. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, and it takes a bit more to make him react.

You've seen Hanna get into those funks, and you haven't quite reached the point where you can sense them coming on. It's all the more alarming knowing that you can't do anything to prevent them. Maybe someday, but not now.

Sometimes it's one too many cases gone wrong. Or guilt, when Hanna feels like he could have done more to help.

You see this, you understand this pain. You can't prevent it from happening, but you understand it. You were there, and though it doesn't affect you like it does Hanna, it's your hurt to share. Having someone else to share things with makes it easier to get past it.

Other times, you're not quite sure what sets it off. It can be anything, really. A walk down the wrong street on a warm summer day, or a bouncy ball from a vending machine outside the convenience store.

You're at Worth's just to hang out on a Saturday afternoon. For once, no one is hurt. You like Lamont, you decide, because Hanna seems to trust him, and you trust Hanna. The fact that his occupation is rather suspicious doesn't bother you nearly as much as it used to.

What does bother you, you realize, is that Hanna's rather quiet. He and Lamont are having a conversation while Worth watches Lost and you read a book, but all of a sudden, it's more one-sided.

Quickly, you backtrack, trying to figure out what part of the conversation set him off.

You look over at Worth in alarm, and the good doctor shrugs, obviously noticing your concern. "Hanna's mother used to call him 'Hanneli' sometimes. Y'know, as a pet name or somethin'. Monty's just about the only person who can get away with it. Sometimes."

You nod, and Hanna seems to notice the fact that you're looking at him, because he forces a smile. Worth also seems to catch this.

"Apparently," the doctor adds in a low voice, crossing his arms behind his head as he returns back to his show, "t'day's not a good day,"

Hanna's bright blue eyes have a dark sheen to them, and it takes more than a breakfast of pancakes and a dollar store water gun from Veser to bring the light back to them.

You wish you could help him. You feel helpless, unable to predict what kind of emotional condition Hanna will be in on any given day.

Fortunately, Hanna's a pretty happy guy most of the time. But you wish he'd share what makes him sad sometimes, some shred of his past that you can use as a tool.

You appreciate Hanna's unpredictability sometimes, though. It keeps things interesting.


	5. Loved

5. Loved : _To feel affection or experience desire_

_Used in a sentence: Sometimes, it takes the threat of losing it all to remind Conrad how loved he is._

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><p>Conrad hasn't stopped shaking.<p>

Somehow, you know that before you step out Worth's door and see his twitching shadow. He's sitting on the ground, legs sprawled out, and sure enough, his shoulders are trembling.

He looks up when he sees you, dark eyes blank and shiny. "Any change?" he asks, and you shake your head.

"Not that I can tell, and Worth's not offering any news," you admit, sitting down next to him. Your voice sounds just as flat and deadpan as always, which is strangely fitting and inappropriate all at once.

Conrad seems to notice this too. "How are you so calm?" he asks, and while it's laced with his usual bitterness, it's not directed at you.

You sigh, shrugging. "I'm not. Not really."

And you aren't. Something in you is screaming and pulling you apart, and while you wish you could pretend it's not there and ignore it, you just can't. You can't pretend you don't know what it is, because you're painfully aware.

It's Hanna. It's _always_ Hanna. Another night, another case, another dangerous situation. You split up again, but this time, you weren't with him. At least he was with Conrad, you justified at the time. But as always, they ran into some trouble, and Hanna took the hit for Conrad. At the end of the adventure, you carried an unconscious and bleeding Hanna to Worth, who took one look at Hanna and sent you to his back room.

He didn't start cursing right away, which is the part that has you concerned. It must be bad this time, you figure. No, you _know_ it's bad this time. You know Hanna would have died if you hadn't gotten him to Worth's in a timely matter. It's very bad this time, and you can only pray that he'll hold on.

You're worried, and while you don't know how to show it, you're hurting. Hanna's hurt again, and though you have faith that he'll pull through like he always does, it still stirs something within you to see him injured. He's pale, still, unconscious, and all the things Hanna shouldn't be. It's just not natural.

You feel guilty, and you'd gladly take every injury for him if it meant that he wouldn't hurt. You know that you'll ponder this late, as you sit next to him and wait for him to wake up. You'll make a mental note of every scar and bruise, almost like a twisted and wrong version of Hanna's own smile tally.

You often wonder if you were queasy in your former life. You're very fortunate that you can't get sick in your current state, as you're around blood much too often to have an aversion to it.

Conrad seems satisfied with your answer, at least for the time being. He removes his glasses, tossing his arm up over his eyes.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Conrad inquires, leaning his head back against the gritty brick. "I mean, he's Hanna, he always is, but…"

"Are _you _okay?" you question, and it's really the reason you came out here.

Conrad lets out a cynical bark of a laugh. "Am I _ever_ okay? Of course not. No matter how many times Hanna gets us into this situation, I can never get used to it. Anyway, it's different this time."

You know exactly why the current situation is so familiar and foreign all at once, but you play along anyway. "How so?" you ask.

"It's… It's just so fucking weird, this whole 'Having someone else look out for me' thing. I don't know why the hell Hanna wants me around, or thinks I'm capable of anything, really. I'm not cut out for this shit, but somehow he manages to drag me along anyway, even if he shouldn't. I'm so used to being on my own and having to prove myself. But Hanna's just always _there_… Do you know what he asked me, tonight? He was just laying there, bleeding and half out of it, all because he decided to push me out of the way. And that was hard enough to deal with, believe me. I don't understand... How anyone can be that selfless. For _me_. But we waited for you guys to come find us… And _he asked me_ if I was sorry that I knocked on his door the night I turned. And… And I didn't know how to answer him. Because I've never been sorry, not really, and if anything, I owe him. For _everything_. My life… Er, what's left of it, anyway… It's changed so much since that night. All of a sudden, I have a whole group of people who are around whether I want them or not. Hanna, and you, and Worth, and Veser, and Toni… all of you. But this… I don't know what I'd do if I lost it all, if I had to go back," Conrad admits, putting his head in his hands.

"I know what you mean," you agree, but sometimes, like tonight, you wish you didn't. "Hanna has given me a life and a home. Hanna is my life now," and it's the first time you've said it out loud. It's the truest thing you've ever said, at least that you can remember.

You can't lie. Especially not about Hanna.

Conrad seems to understand. "I never got a chance to say thank you. He asked if I was sorry, and I was stupid and didn't know how to say 'No, never, of course not,' because _I don't usually do that kind of thing_. And then he passed out, and I didn't get a chance to say... any of it."

"You don't have to say thank you, you know. Just live your life. That's how you thank him," you explain, because you know Hanna and that's the truth.

"But what if he… What if he dies?" Conrad says darkly, and you shudder, because you're wondering the same thing.

There's another question hanging between you: _What if he dies and none of you get to tell him what he means to you?_

You don't have an answer for him, not really, but you say, "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

You're not a touchy feely group of people, after all. You leave that part to Hanna. You're all incredibly neurotic (Conrad), awkward (you), oblivious (Veser), or selfish (Worth). Incredibly loyal, yes, but you have a hard time showing affection.

You're not sure, but you think that this incident might be a push in the right direction, at least for Conrad.

"Hey, um… Larry?" Conrad offers, searching for one of the names Hanna had called him before this mess began.

"Yes?"

"Why'd you come and find me?"

You consider lying for a moment, but just shrug it off. "Worth was worried."

Conrad cocks an eyebrow. "_Worth_ was worried? About me?" he says in disbelief.

"He didn't say he was worried, exactly," you explain with a shrug. "He said to open the door because it was too hot, but I think he knew you were out here."

The vampire laughs, and you know it's because he finds it ironic that so many people care.

**A/N: Who is the "loved" person in this story- Conrad or Hanna? I think they're both rather loved. :-)**

**Thank you for all of the support! I appreciate every hit, review, and alert. If you have any constructive criticism, please don't hesitate. This second person thing isn't quite as awkward as it was at the beginning, and I have a feeling it'll get better as I practice, but if you have anything to say, please let me know.**

**-Marty :-D  
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	6. Soft

6. Soft: _Marked by a gentleness, kindness, or tenderness_

_Used in a sentence: Toni tends to choose guys over girls because deep down, they're the soft ones._

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><p>In your sleepless nights, you've listened to many different genres of music on Hanna's beat up CD player from the dumpster down the street. Sometimes, just like most of the world's population, you can't help but compare real life to the fantasy world projected by the media. As such, there's no denying that Toni's a talented girl.<p>

You see no point in lying to anyone, so all of your compliments are genuine. You've really seen her grow as a performer over the past few months, moving from musical ensembles to featured roles. She's a great dancer, sharp and always on the beat. Her voice is very versatile, able to sing rock, pop, and all of the stereotypical musical theatre without much straining. Every month or so, you find yourself standing with Hanna, Veser, and Conrad at the stage door, waiting for the young werewolf to exit the theatre. Worth usually gets out of coming. Sometimes he has a good excuse, like a patient bleeding out in his back room ("Ya don't see that I'm sorta preoccupied?"). Most of the time, it's something considerably less dire, like reality TV.

One day, Toni bursts into Conrad's apartment with quite possibly the largest grin you've ever seen on her face. Toni is, by nature, a very sincere and warm person, but you're not sure you've ever seen this side of her before. The look on her face is almost dreamy, and you can't put your green and rather dead finger on why it seems so different from her usual smiles of support and friendship.

Then it hits you—the happiness behind it is all because of accomplishment, of awe. Toni often beams at them with pride from the sidelines, but this smile is all her own.

That's why you're not surprised when she announces that after all these shows, she finally got the lead in a community theatre production. For once, Toni talks about herself, confessing that she hopes that it'll be a big resume booster, and she's a little worried about the dancing because it's a tap show and she's really not a tap dancer (she's lying, she's been taking lessons since she was six, and it shows because she's _good_).

Hanna's immediately crushing her in a huge hug, and you all go out for a drink to congratulate her on her success.

Two months later, you go to see the show, where you all sit in the front row on opening night. As you take your seats with a much more excited than necessary Hanna ("Oh my gosh, Horatio, when she gets famous, we can say we knew her when!"), you realize that something seems off about the whole thing. Why is Toni giving _you_ free tickets, when she could give them to her family or other friends?

You know the answer then, but it isn't until after the show when you rush to see her at the stage door ("That. Was. AMAZING! Don't you agree, Pierrepont?") that you realize the real reason: you _are _her family.

There are lots of people nodding to her, complimenting her on a job well done (and it was), but you're the ones waiting for her with flowers and hugs.

Toni tends to surround herself with men. She doesn't throw herself at them, exactly, but she definitely seems to have more men around her than women. It doesn't seem to be a conscious decision.

You watch her carefully over the next few hours, as you go out to the bar to celebrate. She seems to be at ease with men, and on edge with girls. You've seen her chat politely with some of the other girls in the cast, but she doesn't seem to be particularly close to them. It isn't like Conrad, who is aggressive towards _everyone_ but just uncomfortable around women. Toni seems to relax around men, the curves of her back loose instead of stiff and tense.

"Have you ever realized that Toni doesn't have a lot of girl friends?" you ask Hanna the next day as you serve him his breakfast. Hanna's a bit tired, as they didn't get back until late last night and he has to work at noon. You see dark shadows under his eyes, but they look more like smudges of exhaustion than the purple bags of irritation that seem to permanently plague Worth.

"I guess," he yawns, dragging a bite of his pancake through some syrup. The gooey brown liquid drips off his fork, congealing in a caramel-hued puddle on his plate. "I never really noticed it before."

You shrug, sitting down on the rickety chair across from him. It isn't often that you initiate conversation with him, but it's your way of simultaneously waking him up for work and finding out the information you want. You suppose it's a bit sneaky, but then again, maybe Hanna's rubbing off on you. "I didn't until last night."

Hanna blinks. You wonder if he's in a pancake-induced coma of happiness for a moment, but then you realize that he's just thinking. "You're an awfully good investigator, Thomas," he says thoughtfully. "I never noticed that about Toni. I guess it's got something to do with the way she's always in competition with the other girls."

"Competition?"

"Yeah," Hanna confirms, shoving more pancakes into his mouth. "I mean, how many shows have we gone to see Toni in? Five or six, right? And this is the first time we've seen her with the lead. She must not want to talk to bitchy girls. Theatre girls are usually bitchy."

Even though you're pretty sure your expression hasn't changed a bit, Hanna must detect some sort of apprehension on your end, because he continues. "I had a few theatre friends in high school. The ones who are serious about it are usually really, really competitive, and really, really obnoxious. We lucked out with Toni—it shows that not all people are nasty. It also explains why she might not have many girl… Ah, shit," he says looking at the cheap watch on his wrist. "I gotta go. Why don't you just ask her?"

He's out the door before you can ask him why he would _possibly_ think that's a good idea. Looking back, you realize that confrontations with Toni never, ever end well, but you take one look at Hanna's abandoned pancakes and decide to pay her a visit.

You really should learn about portion control, but Hanna's so skinny that you hope he'll eat more if you make more. In this case, there's enough left over (that Hanna hasn't already drenched in syrup, that is) for you to make Toni a nice little basket of breakfast, complete with a bottle of orange juice you forgot to take out for Hanna.

Knocking at her door, you consider that you may be making a mistake, but Toni seems happy enough to see you and Hanna's pancakes (you're okay with the fact that they'll never be _your _pancakes, even though you made them) that it's all good in the end.

"Thanks for coming last night," she tells you with a warm and sincere smile. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to look out at the audience and see familiar faces."

"It was my pleasure," you explain. "And you were very good."

Toni brushes a blue curl out of her eyes. "You don't have to tell me that, just because you're my friend."

You shrug. _I seem to do that a lot_, you think. You vow to come up with some other way of expressing yourself, as shrugging your awkward shoulders seems to be largely ineffective in the long run. "I'm not just telling you that," you insist with all of the sincerity you can muster. You're painfully aware how sarcastic you must seem sometimes. "I have no reason to lie."

"I suppose you don't," Toni sighs, polishing off the end of her pancakes. "These were very good. I wish everyone was as nice as you guys. Seriously. I mean, Hanna's a bit psychotic sometimes, and Conrad can get pissy, but you guys are always there. I really appreciate it. That's why I don't have many girl friends… They're always so bitchy. Guys don't look to piss people off to annoy them. Well, except maybe Worth, but that's just because he's an asshole."

Well, you got your answer, and you didn't even have to try.

"I wondered," you admit, and you smirk a little bit without trying.

"Wait—you and Hanna were talking about me?" Toni inquires, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"Only because we were curious."

She sighs. "Well, I guess guys and girls really aren't that different…"

**A/N: This one's a little vague, but I guess Toni's saying that guys are softer than girls despite what people think. I think it's true. These keep progressively getting longer and longer...  
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**Note: Despite what Hanna and Toni think, not all theatre people are bitchy. I mean, I am, but that's me.  
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**-Marty :-D  
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	7. Hold

7. Hold: _To have or maintain in the grasp_

_Used in a sentence: Sometimes, Veser just needs someone to hold him so he knows that they're real._

* * *

><p>They lost Veser again, and you can't help but think that you saw this coming.<p>

They seem to have slipped into something of a pattern, at least where the nineteen-year-old is concerned. He weaves in and out of your lives (or un-life, in your case) like a warm breeze on a spring day.

Sometimes, he'll be around for weeks at a time, popping up everywhere from Worth's office to the playground near the Target where Hanna works, waiting to throw something at you because he thinks it's funny. He'll tag along on cases, invite himself to movie nights at Conrad's, and wake up in a pile of drool on Hanna's only-barely-clean-because-you-bother-to-vacuum-it floor.

Other times, he'll just disappear. He won't answer his cell phone or text messages, but you're not sure you'd answer either if your inbox were filled with those messages either.

Your friends don't hide much, at least from you. They never cover up their cell phone screens as they text each other. You aren't sure whether to be flattered that they trust you or concerned for their privacy.

_hey ves, just making sure you're alright. yoshimitsu and i were thinking of renting a movie tonight, so you can feel free to crash conrad's with us if you want. let me know, and i'll send you the details. _

You've always been surprised that Hanna uses full sentences and proper punctuation when he texts, because he strikes you as the type of person who would use and abuse abbreviations to his heart's content. When you ask him, he just shrugs and remarks that he's "Not that lazy, right?" It's not the first time Hanna's surprised you, and if you have anything to say about it, it won't be the last. There is the lack of capitalization, but you forgive that.

_No "crashing" my apartment tonight. If you talk to Hanna, tell him to take his party somewhere else. I'm rather sick of cleaning up marker (yes, I saw it) and cheese puff dust. I mean, if you really have to, I guess you can come. Just take off your shoes this time, alright? And try to clean up after yourself._

Conrad forwarded his text to Hanna, and you think he meant it as a warning, but you're pretty sure Hanna took it as permission. There's also the part where Conrad also hasn't seen Veser in a while and seems to be a bit on edge. You've noticed that Veser often stays at Conrad's when he's not on campus, whether the vampire condones it or not, and you figure it was only a matter of time before Conrad started to care for the half-selkie.

Hanna comes home from work that night in complete and utter silence, which is rather concerning.

"Is something… wrong?" you ask.

Your employer slips off the red t-shirt he was wearing and pulls on a checkered polo. He does it quick, but the sight of the angry scar cutting across his torso would make you shiver if you weren't used to it by now. "It's not me, don't worry."

"What's going on, Hanna?"

He brushes past you in a whirlwind of red hair, ignoring the question. "C'mon, we've got to go."

You really hate when he's vague like this. He's got a knack for talking for hours without giving you any of the information you want. "Hanna, wait." You grab his arm, just above his wrist.

Hanna spins around to face you. "What?" he says, and he looks rather annoyed. Irritation doesn't work well on his face, the emotion too foreign to come across correctly.

You repeat your question, a little quieter this time. "What's going on?"

He bites his lip, and finally looks at you. You try to recall where you've seen this look before, and then it hits you—it's the same angry and determined expression that was stamped on his face when Lee Falun's ghost possessed you. That look of unwavering loyalty that's always been one of your favorite things about him.

It also looks like he's trying to solve a problem.

And it's at this point you get a little nervous.

You almost hesitate. "Who?" you ask, dropping his arm.

He blinks, and for a moment, you think he's going to smile at the fact that you're so good at reading his thoughts, but instead, his lips just twist into a sad little line. "_Veser_."

You aren't surprised in the least when you find yourself traveling to Doc Worth's place within minutes. It's sticky and humid, like it's just been raining, and then you recall how dark his red shirt had looked when he came home from work. Of course it had been raining, though with your rather embarrassing aversion to anything wet, you're thankful that it stopped.

On the way, Hanna explains that he hadn't heard from Veser in nearly three weeks, and after checking with the others, he realized that nobody else had seen the half-selkie either.

"What changed?" you inquire, curious as to how you got to this point.

"Conrad and Toni found him. We really should put them in charge of finding things more often, they kind of rock at sniffing out things and they don't seem to hate each other. I mean, Connie doesn't really like _anyone_, but—"

"Hanna," you say in a warning tone. You hope it didn't come across the wrong way. You often wish that you were better at communicating the way you feel, but you suppose that's something that can't be helped unless you try.

"Mmmm, yeah, Veser," he continues sadly. "So, you know how school's out for the summer? Yeah, Veser went home."

"To what?"

"To nothing, I guess. He's been alone this whole time. Which is never a good thing… I mean, to be in that house by himself? After all that happened, I'm not surprised that we didn't hear from him," Hanna says darkly, and again you're reminded that Hanna's got a lot of secrets. You're often surprised at his wisdom, especially when he talks about other people's emotional baggage from experience. _When I get like that_, he often says…

"So he's basically been stewing, for weeks now." Hanna looks and sounds rather guilty, and you plan to deal with that next.

"What happened?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "They found him at the pier, near the water, in the rain. He's not talking to anyone, just kind of spacey. He'll nod or shake his head in response to questions but that's about it. Conrad called, they took him to Worth, first. Doc says that physically, he's mostly okay—just needs to eat. But he's definitely not okay. I thought maybe I could help."

You don't question how. You don't question a lot of the things that Hanna says or does.

You don't question the way he doesn't knock when he walks into Worth's office, or the way he marches right over to the little group huddled by the door. Toni, Conrad, Worth, and Ples are there, looking rather serious. You're almost amused by the fact that stab wounds and spell damage don't seem to faze them any more, but situations like this can put them all on edge.

"Can I talk to him?" Hanna asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He never bothered to change out of his Target khakis, you note. There's a dark ring of discoloration from the rain. You wonder if he stopped jumping in puddles once he got the call around Veser. "Alone?"

"I don't know what good it'll do," Conrad sighs, his normal gloom amplified by the current situation.

Worth updates them. He doesn't look particularly concerned, lighting up a cigarette, but then again, when does Worth _ever_ look concerned? "He's talkin' a bit, now. S'not much, just 'yes' n' 'no.'"

"Please," Hanna asks again. He sounds desperate, and he's not even bothering to hide it.

Even Toni looks skeptical, albeit with a kind smile. "Do you really think you can help, Hanna? I mean, you don't know—"

"—but I do," Hanna cuts in. It isn't like him to interrupt, but by now, you've realized that you haven't seen him this worried since he worked to bring Conrad back to life. Hanna doesn't sound angry, just concerned. "Better than you know."

Worth nods without any more prompting, and seems to understand. "If yeh gotta. Make it quick," the blond remarks with a shrug, opening the door to his back room. "Kid needs his rest," you hear him mutter under his breath, and you wonder if Veser's gotten to Worth now, too. You also wonder if he meant Hanna or Veser, though. Probably both, you decide.

You step back to let Hanna have his space, but he looks at you and nods, so you follow him in.

Veser is sitting on Worth's table, neon shoes dangling above the ground. He looks awfully pale, and Worth has a few grey and moth-eaten blankets wrapped around him in an attempt to warm him up, but they're rather disgusting and old. He's shaking, fingers tightly gripping the metal table. Hanna nonchalantly hops up on the table beside him, short legs dangling off the edge.

Veser's voice is flat, with no energy or emotion behind it. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Hanna says, and his blue eyes look serious for once. You're not used to the concerned and almost accusing look in his eyes, and you wonder if this is a mistake. "Where've you been, man? We've been worried about you." His voice conceals the anger you know he's feeling, but you feel it too.

Why did Veser make you worry? You all obviously cared. He could have stayed with anyone. They all would have taken him. You feel awkward standing beside them, so you sit on the grimy floor next to the table. You're rather thankful that Worth's not there to see you sit at Hanna's feet for fear that he'd make some comment about you acting like Hanna's dog.

Veser doesn't meet Hanna's eyes. He stares at something on the floor, but when you look you don't see it.

"Veser." Hanna says his name again, but his concern finally betrays him and it comes out almost whiny. "Veser, what happened?"

The half-selkie still doesn't respond, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. It looks almost crusty, with some kind of beige-colored goop lining its edges. You are very thankful that you don't have the necessary working parts to vomit, because you definitely would feel nauseated looking at Worth's pathetic equipment.

Hanna tries one more time. "Veser…"

No response.

"Fine. I'm gonna tell you a story," and you realize what you're about to hear in the few seconds before he starts.

Hanna tells the "story" rather quickly, his rapid-fire words coming out with an odd sort of calm anger. "There was once this dumbass teenager who got caught up in a lot of shit and lost a lot of things and people that were important to him. He didn't have anyone to help him, and he eventually lost all will to live and did some really stupid shit because he didn't think anyone cared. One day, he royally fucked up. I'm talking, should've _died_ fucked up. And luckily, he found someone to help him. Eventually, because he decided that he was fucking_ over _that shit, he got a bunch of friends who sometimes like to have him around, and now he's a pretty happy guy."

Veser looks at Hanna finally, and you realize how prominent his eyes really are. It's not just their large size and bold color that catch you off guard. It's the way they're as sharp as his teeth, stabbing right into his friend's hearts. Veser often reminds you of a hardened version of Hanna, and you wonder what happened to both of them to make them so similar and so different all at once.

"What I'm saying is…" and now Hanna sounds a lot more relaxed. "I'm trying to say that I couldn't have gotten through any of it without someone else there. I tried, and it sucked. It didn't work, and I was worse off than before. I don't want that for you," he confesses, patting Veser on his nasty-blanket-covered knee. "And you're lucky, because you've got all of us here, without even trying to look for us. They're all out there waiting for you, you know. Everyone. Because they care."

Hanna's actually tearing up a bit, and you don't think you've ever actually seen him cry before.

"Veser, look here. We're not going anywhere, I promise. We're all here, and I know you need us. There isn't anything wrong with that. I don't care what that asshole told you, there's nothing wrong with needing a friend," Hanna says gently, putting his arms around Veser. You know he was referring to the latter's father.

Fortunately, Veser seems to respond to Hanna's heartfelt speech and touch. The two men—no, boys, really—embrace each other, and Veser sobs into Hanna's shoulder. "I… I can't go back there, Hanna. To that house. I can't…" Veser's voice is wavering and shaking, and you can tell he hasn't spoken in a very long time because it's absolutely scratchy and raw.

"You won't have to," Hanna whispers. "I promise."

You take this as your cue to leave. It's getting too personal for your liking, and it just doesn't feel right to watch two grown men cry and embrace each other for an extended period of time. You're not quite sure why Hanna wanted you there in the first place. You'll have to ask him later, but you have a feeling he wanted to you to hear what he said about his past.

Suddenly, his "random abandonment issues" make a lot more sense, you think as you push open the door.

"So," Conrad cuts in as you close the door. "Did it work?"

Toni smiles. "Do you hear them in there? They're crying like babies. Of course it worked."

Conrad rolls his eyes. "Only Hanna can fucking get someone to snap out of something like that by making them cry."

"Fuckin' déjà vu," Worth remarks, just low enough that you can hear.

"What was that?" you ask, curious.

"It's an aw'fully familiar situation, tha's all. M'gettin' too old fer this shit."

Toni cocks an eyebrow, and you're very thankful (you seem to be thankful for many things, today) that you don't have to be the one to ask. "You mean, Hanna?"

Worth nods as he lights another cigarette, and you realize that you have more questions than answers.

But when Hanna and Veser walk out, moments later, you realize that the smiles on their faces mean that it doesn't matter as long as everything works out in the long run.

**A/N: Added the "Used in a Sentence" thing, because I liked it, so the old chapters are updated with them. Somehow, these keep getting longer and longer with every prompt. The next one is Conrad-based, because I love him.**

**I'm assuming that Veser won't have much of a home life after the current storyline in the comic. For this, I'm just going to assume that both of his parents are dead or gone after all that happens.  
><strong>

**Also, not all of the prompts will be this angsty. For some reason, there are a lot of angsty prompts in a row. I'm sure you're not sorry. I know I'm not. **

**-Marty :-D**


	8. Shackles

8. Shackles: _Something that checks or prevents free action_

_Used in a sentence: As time goes on, Conrad loosens up and lets go of the shackles that were holding him back._

* * *

><p>"I must say," you confess, "I'm sort of surprised to see you here."<p>

And you are. When Veser announced that he purchased several dozen ears of corn, somehow you all get roped into helping him freeze it. You choose not to ask what Veser plans to do with the corn, or comment on the fact that Hanna should probably stay far away from the varying buckets of hot and freezing water.

So you find yourself husking corn outside of Ples's house with Conrad, staying as far away from the water as you can. You're trying to ignore the clattering of pans and splashing of water inside. Sometimes, it's best to leave Hanna to his own devices. Especially when Veser is involved.

But that still doesn't explain why Conrad is here.

He shrugs in response. "Mother used to freeze sweet corn when I was a kid. Enough for us to get through the year, and then some. I've quite a bit of experience doing it, actually. So…yeah, um, I guess I'm here."

You grab another piece of corn and start to rip off the husk. "I was just surprised, that's all," you repeat.

Conrad moves swiftly, peeling the skin off of the corn in a quick, fluid motion. He slides the thin, wiry strands of the silk with expert precision, getting most of it off with one swipe of the hand.

You're not surprised when he moves through it twice as fast as you are.

"You're much better at this than I am," you comment.

Conrad blinks. "I've a lot of practice behind me, I'm afraid."

You're quiet for a bit, husking the corn in silence. Hanna comes out at one point to carry in a tub of finished ears. He nearly trips down the porch step, but you anticipate his fall and stick out a steadying hand to keep him upright.

He sighs in relief, laughing. "Thanks, Kirk. You're a lifesaver."

As soon as Hanna returns inside, Conrad rolls his eyes. "On a Star Trek kick, are we?"

"I've already been McCoy and Spock. I'm just happy he didn't say 'Beam me up, Scotty,' when I pushed him back up," you admit. You shake some of the silk off of your hand, and it slithers to the grass.

Well, Hanna wouldn't actually say that bit about Scotty, because apparently nobody actually said that in the original series.

Conrad breaks your thoughts. "I used to use the left over corn husks for paint brushes. They didn't last long, but there were a lot of them. Cheaper than buying real brushes, anyway. I didn't have my own set of real brushes until college, actually. I had brushes at school, of course, but I've always liked drawing better than painting."

"I thought you were a graphic designer?" you ask. You might as well make light conversation, as your both stuck out here and it's unusual for Conrad to volunteer information.

"I am. I had to start somewhere, though." He gently tosses another ear of corn into the tub and grabs another.

"How did you get into art, if you don't mind me asking?" You're honestly no good at this corn-husking thing, with or without your gloves, and you doubt that your dead fingers have anything to do with the substandard quality of your work.

You're asking a lot of questions. You're not particularly talkative, but curiosity has a way of making you open your mouth more than usual. You wonder if Hanna has something to do with that—he seems to be rubbing off on you.

"I had a teacher in primary school who took interest in me. Mother was less than supportive; I suppose she was proud in her own way, but I don't think she ever thought that an artist could make a proper living. As I grew older, I saved up for Illustrator and Photoshop and all that… Quickly decided that graphic design was my calling. Mother wasn't exactly pleased, especially when I told her I was going to school out of England. Looking back, I suppose there's an awful lot mother wasn't… isn't pleased with…" he says, sighing, and you believe it's the most you've ever heard Conrad say at once.

"You don't sound like you're close with your mother," you observe, but then immediately regret it. "I'm sorry, I think that came out harsher than I meant it to."

You imagine Conrad would bite his lip if he didn't have to worry about puncturing it. You're often not sure how Conrad will react to things, and you wonder if he's as unpredictable as Hanna sometimes.

Instead of getting angry, he just sighs in response. "No, it wasn't, and we're not. My father's been out of the picture since I was three, and I think she was always worried that I'd leave her to. I suppose I haven't been the best son, but then again, I don't think she's been the best mother. I think she always wanted to find something wrong with me because she wanted to say it was the reason he left."

You're not really sure how to respond to any of that. You often find yourself wanting to reach out to people, but it's hard to comfort people when you have little to no memorable experiences to draw emotion from.

If you're being honest, it's all incredibly frustrating.

"I'm sorry," you admit finally.

"No, it's okay, I guess. I've had a lot of time to think about it, and frankly, I'm sick of all the time I've wasted. The best thing I ever did was leave England, I think. Do what I wanted to do, instead of what she wanted me to do. It's had its ups and downs, but I think that's okay." Conrad nods, almost like he's made a decision.

He finishes the last ear of corn. "I guess I'll take these into Hanna and Veser, so the ginger moron doesn't kill himself falling down the stairs."

You nod and watch him leave. Even if you're not all that great at it, it's oddly freeing to husk corn.

You understand why Conrad's good at it; he's had a lot of practice with escaping, you suppose.

**Author's notes: I refuse to apologize for the Star Trek bit. Refuse. However, I do apologize for butchering any British corn-related terms. I'm American, so everything I know about corn (and I do know a bit) is American terminology.  
><strong>


	9. Broken

9. Bro·ken: _Damaged or altered_

_Used in a sentence: Hanna's perception of friendship is sometimes as broken as Conrad's mirror._

* * *

><p>Hanna's hands are shaking, and they're covered in blood. You wish this sight wasn't nearly as familiar as it is, but that's just wishful thinking on your part. He's kneeling in a pile of shattered silver, and the look of guilt and devastation on his face distracts from the broken mirror on the ground.<p>

"Hanna," you say, "I'm sure Conrad won't mind if you just apologize."

He shakes his head. "N-no," he responds. "I don't know. I mean, Conman doesn't even like when we hang out here. He's going to be so fucking pissed." Hanna goes to wipe his bloody hand on his jeans, but you grab his wrist just before he reaches the worn denim. "Hey!"

"You're bleeding, Hanna." You examine the palm of his hand. You can't really tell because there are drops and smears of dark red blood running down his skin, but the cuts don't look that deep. Most concerning, the redhead hasn't even acknowledged them yet.

You're not even remotely surprised.

You've been watching TV at Conrad's for the past hour or so, waiting for him to return from the grocery store with Hanna's food for the week. Hanna got up to change the channel (with some story about the couch eating the remote) when he tripped and crashed into a decorative mirror hanging on the wall.

It promptly shattered into a million tiny silver pieces, leaving you in the current situation.

"Shit," Hanna curses. He pulls his hand away from you, standing up. "When he finds out, seven years of bad luck will be the least of my worries. Here, we better clean it up. Maybe he won't be as mad if we clean it up before he sees it."

Hanna leans over to pick it up, but you stop him. "Hanna," you repeat, trying to sound as stern as possible. "You're bleeding. You should probably take care of that before we clean up the mess. Here—go wash up in Conrad's bathroom, and I'll clean this up."

The paranormal investigator raises an eyebrow. "Gervais, there's a mirror in there."

You shrug, not really understanding. You set out to find a trash bag and maybe a brush and pan; you imagine that Conrad has quite an array of cleaning products, and you're not disappointed.

Hanna blinks. "There's a _mirror_ in there. Do you think the bad luck starts right away? Like, anything I could touch would just break?"

"Then use the sink in the kitchen. I'm sure Conrad won't appreciate coming back to find blood on his carpet," you tell him as you pull out a trash bag from the cabinet.

You set to work, sweeping up the broken glass in one large motion. Fortunately, the glass seems to be in one place, but you'd recommend that everyone keep their shoes on in that particular room for a bit until it's safely vacuumed.

Conrad walks in the door and sighs when he sees you holding a trash bag full of broken glass. He drops the grocery bags on the floor near the door and puts his hands on his hips. "What happened? Where's Hanna?" he asks looking around the room, and he doesn't sound angry just yet, but still irritated. That seems to be the way Conrad handles these situations, by acting out with anger before anything else. But you're beginning to wonder if Conrad's been around the group long enough to keep his emotions in check, because he seems almost relaxed.

In a moment, his face falls. "Wait. I smell…" he trails off, covering his nose with his hand. "Is Hanna okay? I… I smell his blood. Not a lot of it, but…" He sounds embarrassed.

"He had a mishap with your mirror," you tell him. "He's kind of beating himself up about it, please don't be hard on him," you add. You're actually a bit worried for the redhead. It shouldn't take quite that long to wash off the blood. "Hanna, is everything okay?"

Hanna comes out of the kitchen, holding his left hand with his right. "Yeeeeeah, I guess. I got most of the blood off, but there's this one gash on my left hand that won't stop bleeding and—oh, Connie, you're back! Um, I guess you'd like to know what hap-"

"Do you need stitches?" Conrad interrupts. Hanna holds up his hand and shrugs. "I think you do. Let's go to Worth's. You can tell me what you did to my mirror on the way."

"Do I have to?" Hanna asks sheepishly. "I'd rather not."

You know he's talking about going to Worth's, but you can't help but wonder if he's thinking about the upcoming conversation he has to have with Conrad, too.

"Hanna, you really should have Worth look at that," you echo. "It could get infected, or scar."

"What's another scar?" Hanna responds with a smile, and you try not to think about how dark those words really are. The way he can stay cheerful about such things is almost scary.

You look to Conrad, and you realize that he's scared, too.

Hanna turns serious, and starts blubbering an apology. "Look, Conrad, I know you're really pissed. It was really, really stupid, and I'm really, really sorry, and—"

"Hanna, shut up," Conrad cuts in coolly. "I don't care about the fucking mirror."

Hanna stops his string of apologies and tilts his head. "Wait, what?"

"I said—I don't care about the mirror. Let's go get your hand looked at."

Later, you realize that Conrad's covering for himself. He's pretending that he's upset about the smell to hide that he was really scared for Hanna.

You also suspect that he's a bit ashamed that Hanna expected him to be so angry. He seems embarrassed that Hanna would expect so little out of their friendship, but he's not blaming the redhead.

Hanna is asleep on his couch, and the vampire is clearly ignoring the fact that the paranormal investigator is drooling on his cushion because he was so worked up earlier. You had returned to Conrad's apartment after Worth stitched up Hanna's hand (The doctor's response had been something like "Really? REALLY, Confag? You didn't hide all sharp objects? And anyway, s'not like you've got a use for a mirror.), and you're reading a book while Conrad works.

"I was worried," Conrad admits all of a sudden, ripping off his headphones. "I was worried when I came in and smelled his blood. But most of all, I was worried by the way he thought I'd react. Am I really that bitchy?"

You shrug, looking up from your book. "I don't think so. I know Hanna doesn't think so. I can't speak for Worth, though."

Conrad thinks about this for a minute, then laughs. "Worth can go fuck himself."

**Author's notes: I'm on a Conrad kick right now, can you tell? Most of the multi-chaptered story I'm working on is from his perspective, so he's been in my head lately.  
><strong>


	10. Precious

10. Pre·cious: _Of great value or high price_

_Used in a sentence: Nothing is more precious than the zombie's friendship with Hanna. Nothing._

* * *

><p>You've got a lot of time on your hands.<p>

A _lot _of time on your hands. And as such, you've read quite a few books.

You're often drawn to suspenseful crime thrillers or detective novels, but you're becoming increasingly alarmed that the real life scenarios you find yourself in with Hanna seem to be echoing the thick black text on the yellowing pages of your library books.

It's quite unnerving, actually.

You've read about goosebumps, and people being so scared that their hair stands on end. Only _read_ about those feelings, because it's not like you can actually experience that.

Instead, fear leaves you with a dull ache in your long-dead stomach. It takes the form of a paralyzing focus that consumes your whole being.

But if you could feel all of those fearful sensations, you imagine it would feel just like this. You feel like you've lost something, and if you don't hurry, it'll be gone in a blink of an eye.

You're too much familiar with this situation. It's as familiar as an old friend, peeking out just when you expect not to see it again.

And it's frighteningly disturbing.

You're almost angry, actually. No matter how many times you tell Hanna that you've got his back, that you won't leave, you still don't understand his reluctance to bring you along. You try to tell him that you can't get hurt, that you can help him, but he still often runs ahead to keep something from you.

What he doesn't realize is that he's hurting you more than any punch in the face could. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but you wonder if he'd stop if you told him that.

You're honestly not sure how he'd react.

So here you are again. Hanna ran ahead and left you behind, _again_.

"Are you trying to shake me?" you found yourself saying again.

And of course Hanna replied, "Of course not!"

_Liar_.

So you're searching everywhere for him, wishing he wasn't quite so fast.

As you go farther into the area where Hanna went, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a fight. Suddenly nothing else in the world matters—your anger and frustration, or the situation you're in, or even the fact that if you sat down and thought about it (and there will be plenty of time to do that later), you'd probably come to the conclusion that this is all Hanna's fault in one way or another.

Not that anything else ever mattered. You've had years to ponder life and the lack thereof, and in a few short months, you've found more of it in the body of a short, skinny redhead

Hanna is all you have in the world. He's loyal, and loving, and your best friend. You can't lose that because he's careless. You can't lose that because he thinks he's saving you by keeping you out of the fight. It's not fair to both of you.

You hear the sounds of the scuffle suddenly stop, and it makes you go that much faster. You dash up the stairs, your footing much too rhythmic and precise to make you fall. Maybe you should share that method with Hanna.

You burst into a messy room. There's obviously been some sort of fight here. You walk around, surveying the broken and shattered surroundings…

…and find Hanna lying much too still on the ground near a wall.

You sprint next to the motionless figure on the ground and drop to your knees, examining Hanna's prone form.

He's hurt, but it doesn't look like anything too severe. He's bruised all over and you're pretty sure that gash on his head means he has a concussion, but at first glance, you don't find anything life threatening.

That's good.

You put a hand on his shoulder. "Hanna? Hanna, can you hear me?"

You let a sigh of relief when he stirs beneath your fingertips, letting out the quietest of groans.

"Is 'e gone?" Hanna slurs, eyes only half opened.

You glance over your shoulder. No one seems to be around, so Hanna either scared whoever it was off or made them really, really mad. "I think so, Hanna." Looking back at him, you predict that he's probably going to pass out again in a moment or two. He looks exhausted.

"That's… that's good," he says in a shaky voice. He coughs a bit, and a skinny trickle of thick red blood runs down his chin.

You instantly panic, wondering if your initial assessment of Hanna's injuries was dead wrong. Did you miss something? Was Hanna really dying, right there next to you? You look down at his body, looking for an answer.

Reading your thoughts, Hanna shakes his head. "'M fine, Atticus. Just over… Overdid it a bit. But it worked, and he's gone, so…"

That's when you look him right in the eyes, really look at him. There's so much you want to say right now. You want to say how worried you were a moment ago. How worried you _are_. Because Hanna's okay this time, but there's no telling what might happen next time.

He nods, wordlessly understanding as always. "Sorry for worrying you," he whispers. "And for running off again."

You look at him sharply. "Please try not to do it again." _Please_, you echo in your head.

"I'll try," he murmurs as his eyes flutter closed again.

As you scoop him up in your arms and head to Worth's you can't help but feel like he's lying.

**Author's notes: I revised some of the older chapters for spelling/grammar and everything. These are posted pretty much after two readings, and I don't have a beta for this, so I catch things later. **

**Story-wise or un-story-wise, nothing's changed, though. **

**By the way, I'm posting these on DeviantArt every ten, so look for them on there!**


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